


You're a Witch!

by Dominion_of_Dust1886



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Cows, Drinking, F/M, Horseback Riding, Horses, Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, Slow Build, Slow Burn, horsies!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-21 09:22:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominion_of_Dust1886/pseuds/Dominion_of_Dust1886
Summary: Inspired by Tumblr's shepardluvsgarris's 'You're a Witch' headcanons.Life with the Van der Linde gang wasn't what Grace Hearne had ever expected to be. She anticipated life in constant danger sure, but not the close knit family air.Grace was distancing herself from her own demons and wasn't looking for anything else. Keep her head down, don't get noticed and stay out of trouble.And the last thing the gang ever expected was they had a witch on their side.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	1. A Meeting and an Invitation

_**Late February 1899** _

_ **Armadillo, New Austin ** _

The wind whipped through the dirt covered thoroughfare of Armadillo without preamble. It's force blew past hanging laundry, peppering it with beige dust. Clothes billowed and coiffed hair tangled much to the distress of vain folk; not that there were too many of those in the small podunk. 

Hosea Matthews, the whippet lean conman, had thought to swindle the masses after hearing about the slow growing hick town. He had only stayed here about ten years back, recalling it was barely starting with a general store for ranch folk. It had grown since then, providing more buildings and more people. 

He surveyed all this from his seat just outside the saloon as he waited for Arthur Morgan to return from the on going poker game just inside it's swinging doors. He already gotten some friendly talk in with the bartender and picked a few pockets while doing so. Using the picked money to buy a few rounds only made it sweeter.

He stood, wandering towards the general store, feeling better than he had in ages. Ever since Bessie passed away, Hosea hadn't been up to pulling jobs with Dutch all too often. Granted he was considering on leaving the gang for good after learning of her illness. She hadn't lasted more than three months. 

He stepped onto the covered walkway as his knee popped painfully. Hosea grimaced as his hand rubbed the swollen joint.

"Swollen knee, sir?" A soft voice calls from his right; he looks, finding a young woman eyeing him. 

A slight thing, bundled in layers of earth tone shawls and a patchwork skirt. A scarf of deep crimson had been bundled about her head, tendrils of deep black hair flitting with the breeze. It was the wintertime in the desert, but not so cold as to be layered so thoroughly as she. She twisted her fingers about one another, wide green eyes intent on his predicament.

He says nothing at first, noting she carried nothing save a sack that might have held grain. 

"Iffin your askin' about givin' me a..._favor_, I ain't into what you're sellin'."

She blinks, before shaking her head, "n-no. No, I don't partake in that kinda thing, sir." Her accent reminded him slightly of his long gone love: a mix of Welsh and the rustic twang of New Austin he'd become familiar with. 

She had pulled forth a vial from a pocket of her threadbare coat. A green bottle of glass with a clear liquid about the width of his thumb sloshed inside.

"I-I sell tinctures," she hands it to him as emphasis, "home made ones passed down my family."

"Tinctures," Hosea frowns at the tiny bottle, one that might have held some fancy perfume, a worn cork keeping it closed, "looks like a poor attempt at some snake oil."

"Snake oil?" She frowned herself, confused.

"A fake? A phoney medicine that would get me sick from the very first swig?"

That comment had made her distressed, hand going forth to touch his coat sleeve. He barely pulls back, seeing those wide eyes swim with moisture. 

"I'd never do as such, sir! My medicines are in no way that kind of cruelness," she sweeps her hand towards the general store, "I've sold some to the man in there and he's tried it."

"Could have gotten some from the doctor across the road for all I know." He reasons. 

The young woman seems to deflate, head bowing, "I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can do. I-I'm only trying to get some money to leave here."

_Who isn't?_ Hosea thinks, watching her as she places the bottle back into her coat. She didn't seem much older than Abigail, nor did it look like she had much in the way of food or any kind of rest.

"Look, uh Miss..." he waits.

"Hearne, Grace Hearne." She sniffs.

"Miss Hearne, how much for one?"

She frowns, brushing her hand across her eyes, "well, to prove it's good, it's only twenty-five cents."

He hands her a quarter as she places the bottle in his hand, "I'm gonna try it now. If it's bad, I gotta friend whose gonna take you to that jail."

He pointed at the end of the road, gauging her reaction. She doesn't show any nervousness at the threat, but it doesn't stop the shiver she gives with the wind.

Uncorked, Hosea tips the scant liquid into his mouth. It tastes of strong mint cream before a warmth spreads to his limbs. The ache of riding a rickety wagon into town has ebbed way. He bends his wonky knee, not feeling the pain as he expected. 

"Hmm," he walks the length of the boardwalk, feeling no kind of discomfort.

Miss Hearne took to biting her bottom lip as Hosea came back. He stood a bit straighter than before. 

He huffs a breath, "well, either this is the best swindle I'm being taken advantage of or you ain't lying."

"I wouldn't lie to you, sir, nor any of the other people I've sold this to," she supplies.

"Then you should sell it for double the price of the doctors and he ain't cheap," Hosea props himself against a wooden beam. Still no aches.

"I couldn't do that," she goes back to twisting her fingers, "plenty of people who don't have that kind of money have need of this. I have others too, ones for other problems."

"Acting like a saint doesn't get you anywhere, especially with the need for money. Still," he pulls a five dollar bill from his billfold, "I'll pay ya anyways."

Her eyes widen, "sir-"

"Hosea Matthews," he tips his hat.

"Mr. Matthews. Thank you." She makes to leave. 

The turning woman had him rethinking, assessing. The gang could use someone with her talent. She had a gift for real medicine.

"Do ya have anywhere to go?" He says before he could stop himself. 

Miss Hearne's head only tips slightly, "I'd hate to impose."

"No imposition. Me and my associate are in town until tomorrow; go get yourself something to eat and some rest. Do ya got a horse?"

Another hesitant shake of her head. 

"S'okay. We got a wagon," he points at the one just outside the stables. "Sunrise, be there if you want outta here."

She gave him a soft smile, going back inside the general store as Hosea practically skipped back to the saloon.

Arthur, meanwhile sat on the bench he previously occupied, an eyebrow raised at his antics. The unlit cigarette loosely held between his lips. 

"What's got ya so giddy?" The younger man asks as he lit the tobacco. 

Hosea waves a hand, plunking down next to him, "haven't felt this good in years."

Arthur hummed, flicking the match into the street, a crooked set to his mouth.

Hosea knew that look, "ya mean ya lost?"

"Yeah," Arthur admits, dejected, "bastard tricked me in the last hand."

Hosea merely pats his shoulder, "how many times will it take you to pay attention to bluffs in poker?"

" 'magine it'll be a few more years."

"Sure, just let that sink into that thick skull of yours," Hosea adjusted his hat, his eyesight seemed to be sharper. He could read the date of the carriage company established.

"So, we swindlin' the place or we doin' charity work?" Arthur nodded towards the general store. Miss Hearne's silhouette could be seen beyond its glass. 

Their reasoning for coming to Armadillo was get cleaned up, come in as prospective landholders and 'sell' land north of the Grizzlies. Eventually go to Blackwater and do the same for double and get some sort of bidding war going. It was a separate job than that of Dutch and his idea of robbing the riverboat.

"It ain't charity work if it works to your advantage. That young lady has a knack for medicine, she's an asset."

"Just another mouth to feed, nother body to protect," Arthur rested his arms on his thighs. "Sure Dutch'll be thrilled."

"Don't judge before ya know her," Hosea reprimanded him as the young lady made her way towards them, "Miss Hearne, this is my associate, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur stands, thumbs in his belt as she nods. About a head shorter than him, timid as she bobbed her scarf covered head. A pretty thing with big eyes but by no means as boisterous as Karen or Abigail. Judging from her attire, girl must have been on the road for some time. 

She seemed to remember her manners as she made a slight curtsey, "a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan."

"Miss Hearne," the corner of his mouth twitching upward, "Herne, like the Hunter?"

"Spelled different," she locked eyes with him now, those green orbs taking in his features, "y-you know of the old gods?"

He shrugged, "mighta remembered the stories my momma told me when younger."

"She's got a knack for tonics," Hosea joined in, beckoning them back inside the saloon, "I'll get us another room for you, my dear."

"Oh, no. You don't need to," she waved her hand, "you've done more than I have asked."

"Nonsense," Hosea arched his hand, "told ya your medicine should be twice what the doctor sells at."

"Ain't worth arguin' with Hosea," Arthur tells their newest member, "' 'slong as ya do yer part, ya got a place."

"A place?"

"With us, there's more of us. A big ol' family of misfits," he rubbed the back of his neck, "unless ya gotta be some where's else?"

"No. Not yet."


	2. Coulter

The niggling, whispered call of the mountain still played in the back of her mind. The voice seemed to be a plea, sharpening with every turn of the wheel of the wagon. She hadn't paid any attention to it back in camp, mind in keeping out of the way, just another person in camp.

_You're a wild spirit, child. A force even we cannot contain, yet is needed beyond the coven._

_I do not know the world beyond._

_Hehe. It calls for you..._

"Miss Hearne!" Mrs. Grimshaw's voice grated her back into focus. Her hands had strayed away from the bloody mess before her.

"S-sorry," she shivered.

Grace pressed her hand across the messy bullet wound of Davey Callender, her bottom lip trembling. She tried to focus, tried to syphon her efforts into keeping his blood from spilling out. 

Grimshaw batted her hands away, "get the wraps."

Grace numbly did as she was told, already seeing the boy's death with all the blood leaking out of him. He hadn't a chance with the lead in his stomach. She could sense his body heat dwindling.

The flight from Blackwater was far from clean as most items that weren't already in the wagons or packed on horses were left behind. The frantic response wasn't expected by anyone who stayed in camp nor had anyone anticipated the sudden change of course. 

"He's gone," she whispered, trembling. The last of his breath easing into the air. 

She kept her eyes downcast, the curses and sniffled cries only making it worse. The elder matron cursing louder than the others. 

_Others ahead, the waters astray. One on the trail, his death a sign of more. _

Grace shook her head, tightening her shawls against the biting cold.

The snow provided a hard drive into the mountains. In most cases the trail was blocked by white out conditions. It came in just as they ascended into its hold, the flakes big and plentiful.

Grace blew a strand of her dark hair away from her face, a soft word floating out. The snowfall settling into the caravans noticable trail with her spoken words.

_This is the right path_, the mantra plays in her mind, _Another needs us._

They continued on, the sun fading behind the insistent snowstorm. The trees growing closer as if for comfort.

They needed shelter, a makeshift camp to get out of the weather as it grew. Arthur took point on scouting ahead as the caravan could only go so fast. Charles' horse, Tamia, a surrogate mount for the man as he set out. A convenience as Mr. Smith had a lame hand to attend to, a point she took upon in their slow trudge. 

"Arthur!" Dutch called into the wind, "any luck?"

The other man's voice answers, "town not too far! Looks abandoned, but has buildin's. Get us outta the storm!"

"Lead us forth!" The reins snapped the horses forward. Whatever light there was was the bobbing lanterns ahead.

Between shivering breaths and rubbed together fingers for warmth, Grace dozed. 

-*-*-

_The gang who gone for the ferry zipped in through the brush, horses in a panic. They pawed the ground, snorts and whinnies drowning out Dutch's commands._

_Dutch's call from atop The Count lit a fire in everyone to move fast, "Hurry! They aren't that far behind!"_

_Retorts of echoing gunfire had some craning their necks to see that, yes, the churning dust beheld the law. _

_"What in the blazes happened?" Hosea barked, toting a crate to the chuck wagon. _

_"Ambush!" Micah Bell answered, "they knew we was comin'!"_

_"Less talk!" Dutch called, "we need to get outta here! Susan! Miss Hearne! Mr Callander needs your help!"_

_The aforementioned man was draped over the flank of Bill's horse, a trail of red dripping heavily from his stomach. Arthur lent his arm to pull the man down as Mrs. Grimshaw hurried to prepare a traveling hospital._

_A posse of ten began shooting at the scattering Van der Linde gang, taking pot shots at anything that moved. The surprise attack had most scattering for cover. Their horses pawing the ground as gunsmoke filled the air. _

_Arthur pulled the injured Callander brother roughly behind the wash barrels, whipping his Cattleman Revolver out in retaliation. Grace ducked behind another barrel, hands over her ears. _

_A startled cry came from Grace's left, the blonde haired Jenny toppling over the wash barrel. A bloom of blood forming on her white blouse just across her heart. _

_"Jenny!" _ _The anguished yell from Lenny tore Grace's attention. _

_Another bark of a shotgun towards the horses, scarring a few off. The buckshot found its target in Boedacia, Arthur's beloved golden roan, in her chest, her neck. The poor animal's neck shorn open through her windpipe. _

_The men whipped out their guns, firing towards the unprepared riders. Three dropped quickly to their deaths while one clawed helplessly at his blood spattered leg; he didn't last long after that. _

_Mrs. Grimshaw managed to snag a shotgun from the wagon she hid behind, unloading both cylinders from the hip. The blast took part of one man's hand off while shearing into his mount. _

_The frenzy was enough to scare away the rest, they quickly turned tail back into the brush. The dust kicked up by their horses the last indication they were there. A unsettling quiet and the lingering gunsmoke barely perceptible against the blood._

_"Jenny!" Lenny bounded across the rough ground, landing heavily in the dirt, "Jenny, c'mon now, look at me!"_

_Grace had hoped, as she hurried to his side, Jenny would be sporting a cut, a deep scratch. Yet the amount of blood and the unfocused look in her hazel eyes bespoke she was gone. She didn't stand a chance. _

_"Ain't too many places to go, Dutch!" Arthur called, drawing Grace's attention to him. He had Davey sat in the covered wagon. _

_"I know," the leader swiped his forehead, leaving a trail of dust on his skin, "can't stay here, we need to go!"_

_Micah tossed his hand, "Where? We ain't got-"_

_"The mountain," Grace supplied, gaze distant, "the mountain isn't far."_

_Her voice, while small and shy when addressing the group, had garnered the ones to pay attention. She hardly spoke to anyone, yet proved that she wasn't incompetent. _

_She turns towards the jagged peaks, feeling the pull, "a storm is coming, heaps of snow will cover our tracks."_

_"Storm?" Dutch eyed the clear sky, "ain't seein' any storm."_

_"It would provide us protection, somewhere to hide," Grace pleaded. "A chance. I've dealt with similar peaks further east and these are no different."_

_"She's got a point," Hosea calls, "Grizzlies would provide us cover, it's close enough."_

_"A tough slog," Dutch shot back._

_"What choice do we have? We gotta go!"_

_The darker haired man barked an anguished groan. His ringed fingered hand swept around. _

_"Get your warmest clothes! Hurry!"_

-*-*-

"Come on! We're here!"

Grace awoke, joining the others that stepped off the wagon. The storm had lulled for the moment to give the gang a reprieve. 

"Get us settled," Dutch ordered, "Arthur! Let's find Mr. Bell, see what's t'be had."

"Be careful," Mrs. Grimshaw called back. "Miss Hearne! Tilly! Let's get a move on!"

-*-*-

It took them longer to set up Coulter into a makeshift camp, most of their belongings were left behind. They somehow managed to take out the essentials, scavange a fair amount of dry tinder and wood left under the driest portions of the buildings, and get everyone settled in their respective lodgings before the group Dutch took came back.

Their return to Coulter and the shaken Mrs. Adler in their company had caught some off guard but not Grace.

The voice calling from the mountain had ceased when she slid down from The Count. Ashen faced and shivering, Grimshaw lead the poor woman inside. She would be in good hands, minding her to brew up a tincture for her at the scout fire.

A dented kettle, a slight larger than her fist, Grace removed from her bag, scooping some fresh snow into its inside. A satchet of dried herbs followed as Grace placed it near the flames.

The shuffling of feet gave way to Mr. Morgan standing just across from her by the fire. The heavy blue coat covered in a fine dusting of snow. He raised his uncovered hands towards the flames for warmth. 

"Should go inside ta warm up," he breathed, the rumble of his voice slightly loud in the quiet of the storm.

"Should say the same to you," she swirled the kettle, "you were in the thick of the storm while I wasn't."

He shrugs, brushing his beard, "what're ya doin', anyways?"

"From looks of Mrs. Adler, she's in need of more than just a warm place and food."

The implied statement of what may have happened to their newest charge hung heavily in the air. They knew what the O'Driscoll's were capable of, the blonde woman had all the signs of it on her.

"But you also found a new beast," Grace bobbed her head towards the brown and white paint hitched across the way.

Arthur struck a match on the building wall before lighting a crooked cigarette to his lips, "yeah. Bout the only good thing they had. Might keep 'im fer awhile."

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sound the pattering of snow and the crackling of the fire.

It wasn't too cold near the fire, yet Grace shivered under her layers. She was putting a great deal of her energy into the effects of the tincture swirling in her kettle. It wouldn't help Mrs. Adler if she half-assed a simple concoction as this. Still, as she swirled the brew, Grace kept glancing at her guest.

She still couldn't read Mr. Morgan like the others. Sure, some she didn't say much to because of how quiet she was. Others, like Bill Williamson and Micah Bell she tended to steer clear of. But he wasn't harsh with his words, nor was he brash when it came to getting things done. Mr. Morgan drove an even keel, going so far as to do much of the work himself to keep the peace in camp.

The brew Grace deamed finished, taking it off the fire to cool the same time Arthur flicked the remains of his cigarette into the fire. 

"Finished?"

She nods, standing, "seems done-" she eyes him, "-you know, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't need someone to be watching over me out here. I'm fine."

He only shrugs, hooking his fingers in his belt, " 's fine. Thought ya might jus' wanted ta talk bout earlier."

"Earlier? Oh."

In their haste, Grace had hardly paid heed to her still bloody hands, nor the stains of the red that dotted her scarves.

She tugged the ruined scarves off, tossing them into the fire. A smidge of a loss, but she hated to keep that memory near her. Arthur offered his tin cup, which he too had melted some snow for her to wash the blood away. 

"Thank you," it was meek compared to her boldly spoken words. "I'll be okay."

Again, Arthur shrugged and let the rest go.

"I ain't good at talking, but ya can talk to me bout it."

It hung loosely between them as they retired to their respective bunks. But after getting their assorted jobs done, both found it hard to find sleep without thinking on the other ones words. 


End file.
